Respire
by Oddly Inspired
Summary: All he can think of, all he can say, all he can do, is to ask for another light and ignore the tears slowly spilling from her bright bright bright brighter than the sunrise eyes.


**H**ello, everybody! This would be my first fiction for CB, so I hope you all like it! If you do, please leave me a review, and I'll love you forever. **

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**Unaided.**

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Deep breaths. One, two, three. Four, five, six. Seven, eight, nine, ten. Exhale, slowly slowly slowly. Breathe again—one two three four five six seven eight nine. Ten. Exhale. Slow.

He was alive. He didn't know how, he didn't know why. What about…? Was he still alive? He'd have to shoot the bastard again. As long as he didn't get shot first.

Inhale deeply—one two three—breathe out—four five six—stand—seven eight nine—the gun—ten.

Two rapid shots, and he falls again.

If he believed in God, he'd be praising him now. It's all over. But he's alive.

He doesn't believe in God.

And he doesn't want to be alive.

The plan is failing him, and he doesn't have a back up this time. He can see and hear the people running now, and he shuts his eyes, but it magnifies the noise. He opens them.

Breathe. One, two—a pair of boots catch his eyes, the long expanse of smooth pale leg and a gold ring around one boot that jingles sometimes when she walks, he shuts his eyes and can hear it, and he knows she's coming towards him now so he opens them again anyway—three, four—he shuts his eyes again because it's **so bright** sitting here looking up at the sunrise—five, six—he feels a cigarette being jammed in his mouth, hears the click of a lighter, smells the oil and smoke and flame.

"Figured you could really use on right about now."

He exhales around the stick, grateful, for once, that she was here. Sometimes she would do little things like that, and he would realize that maybe he really meant something to her, after all. And despite his best efforts to discourage any sort of attachment between them, maybe she meant something to him, too. She was like a fungus of some sort, he thought, one that seems malicious and horrible but grows on you and, eventually, develops a strange but symbiotic relationship with you.

And after awhile, you need it.

"He's dead. So you can rest easy for now. Or whatever."

He doesn't open his eyes, but he knows she's headed towards the stairs now. He waits a while, listening to her slow and deliberate footsteps. He knows she doesn't want to leave him, but she thinks it would be best, that it would be awkward if she stayed and helped him, that it just wouldn't be **her**.

One, two. Exhale. Pull up, wince. Three, four. Exhale. Sit, grimace. Five, six. Exhale. Spit out cigarette, cough. Seven, Eight. Exhale. Watch her walk, groan. Nine, ten. Exhale. See her on the top step, "Faye."

She stops where she is, one hand gripping what was left of the banister, the other hanging in a fist by her side. She doesn't raise her head or meet his eyes, that would be too much for either to bear, but she slowly steps back to where he's now sitting.

And when she looks up and faces him, he finds everything that he'd just planned to say flies out of his mind, but not to his tongue. He can't even think of what it was that he wanted to tell her, can't even start to ponder what it was that made him ask her to stay, though not in so many words. All he can think of, all he can say, all he can do, is to ask for another light and ignore the tears slowly spilling from her bright bright bright brighter than the fucking sunrise eyes.

She tosses her whole pack—only three left—into his lap, followed by her trusty Zippo. "There. That should be enough till you manage to get back on the Bebop."

Of course she wouldn't offer to help—**he doesn't need her**—of course she wouldn't stay with him—**she doesn't want him**—of course he wouldn't ask her to—**he's not so stupid.**

But he must be, he thinks, because why can't he ask?_ Just stay until I can get up on my own_. But that seems unreasonable when he's the one who left her in the first place; left her to go deal with her shit on her own **without his help**, so how can dare to ask her to help deal with his?

And so he only watches and doesn't say anything more as she gets back up and walks towards the steps, the deliberate slowness gone from her walk now.

_Deep breaths_—one two three four five—_just forget it_—six seven eight nine ten.

One of the syndicate guys, those loyal dogs he'd forgotten, comes now to help him up, and he feels like a goddamn cripple when the guy ends up carrying him down the damn stairs because it hurts so fucking bad to move that he's developed a limp and his maximum speed is only about three damn miles per fucking hour and he cusses the whole way down because every damn step is a bump and it reminds him just how fucked up he is this time.

Somehow, he just doesn't think that either Jet or Faye are gonna be able to patch him this time, although Faye's gotten pretty damn good with needles and sutures.

The syndicate kid lays him down on the ugly yellow couch in the Bebop and leaves him with a glass of water and an ashtray already sitting nearby. There some painkillers there and he wastes no time in swallowing the little white pills, but he knows they won't do much.

She walks into the room, all confidence and surety, both false airs put on so that he wouldn't see, and sits on the ugly yellow chair across the table from him. She grabs one of her cigarettes back and smokes it quietly, pretending not to look at him. The silence rings in both their ears and after awhile, he figures that she just can't take it anymore, because she looks at him for a long while, prompting to say something, anything.

But he can't. All he can think about now is how he raised his gun and pulled the trigger, the cold metal in his hands and—_**bang**_.

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She had climbed the steps so slowly and fearfully that her ascent was almost reverence, like she was going to go meet some king or some kind of God, whoever that was. She had never been able to believe in God, at least not in one that had allowed her life to become what it was now. Sure, one could argue that she'd done it to herself; that her life was fucked up because **she** was fucked up, but that didn't make sense to her, because she hadn't wanted to be brought back to life.

If the decision had been hers to make, she would have stayed in that strange frozen sleep, where at least she wasn't subjected to this sort of torture. She could deal with not remembering her past—what was the saying? what you don't know, you can't miss—she could deal with the way her life had turned, she could deal with living life from one bounty to the next.

The one thing that she couldn't deal with was the one thing that she was now steadily approaching. And she wasn't sure whether to be relieved or bothered that he was still moving. So he was alive, but what did that mean for her? She'd expected him to die, she'd started to accept the idea already, she'd emptied out the chamber of her Glock—one two three four five—as she'd emptied herself of whatever that emotion was that she'd felt when he'd told her about his plan.

But she could see him now, could make out the rise and fall of his chest, the grimace on his face, the pain in his eyes. Oh, gods how she hated those fucking eyes… they didn't match and it was like they looked through you and it was damn annoying.

She watched him now and noticed with vague alarm the lump that swelled in her throat as he pushed himself up and shot his favorite adversary twice, just to be good and sure that he was dead, that it was over, that he could breathe a little easier now, maybe. She shuts her eyes when he fell again, but regains her composure and walks to the body, giving it a good kick just for the hell of it, because it seems like the right thing to do, because it seems like he's fucked **everyone** over, so why not degrade him a little?

There were people running around now, all types of people—looters and syndicate members and bounty hunters and police and just **everybody**—all running around and screaming and doing God-knows-what, and she sees him shut his eyes and grimace and open them back quickly.

She begins to walk to him, counts his breath as she approaches—one, two—and he closes his eyes again and opens them and she knows that he's watching her—three, four—and his eyes are shut once more and she's tempted to do the same because the sun is coming up now and it's damn bright—five, six—and she's there, looking down at him, squatting on the ground next to him, shoving a cigarette into his mouth and lighting it for him.

She says something about him needing one. He exhales and she's never been so grateful to hear something as simple and mundane as breath.

"He's dead. So you can rest easy for now. Or whatever," she says as she finds herself walking away from him, toward the stairs that she'd just spent a good half-hour climbing up. She's on auto-pilot, almost, but she makes herself walk slowly, and she's not sure why but she wants to stay. _That's a new one_, she thinks, since normally she would just leave without a second thought and she tells herself this as she begins her way down, because why should this be unlike any other time?

_Because he came here to throw his life away!_ But it doesn't concern her, not really, since hasn't she wanted to die before?

"Faye." And with that, she stops, and with that stop, she realizes something. She doesn't say and she doesn't admit it to herself, but she turns around and walks back to him. He asks for a light and doesn't look at her, and she is only distantly aware that she's crying after all. She doesn't say anything she wants to; only tosses her whole pack—only three left—and her Zippo lighter into his lap. "There. That should be enough till you manage to get back on the Bebop."

And, all slowness gone, she makes her grand exit, something she's always been good at.

When she gets back on the Bebop, she remembers to set out some painkillers and water for him, next to the ashtray so he'd be sure to find them. She hears when they bring him in, because he cusses a lot and the syndicate kid is full of apologies. She waits a minute and then walks in, making a grand entrance because that's something else that she's always been good at. She doesn't sit so much as she alights on the chair, right on the edge, and she steals back a cigarette and smoke quietly, watching him from the very corner of her eyes. It's quiet, which is annoying, but she doesn't say anything at all, just stares and stares and stares, leaving it all up to him.

But he seems like he's in a different world, at a different time and place. Like always. She isn't in the least surprised. So is she. She's back on the stairs when he stopped her and she realized that **she was his**, even if it wouldn't ever matter to him. She's back in the hall when she emptied her chamber—Bang, Bang, Bang, Bang, _**Bang**_.


End file.
